These days the NFL is a precision league. The multiple formations and the shifting alignments are orchestrated like high testosterone ballets. There are hard hitters, no doubt, and my favorites–Ndamukong Suh, Brian Urlacher and Troy Polamalu–would be at home in any era. They would dominate in any era. In fact, the size and speed of the contemporary NFL player makes most of the big men of the 1970s look like today’s mid-level college athletes.

But it is the old style running backs I miss–the ones who could, and would, run over you rather than dance and dart to avoid a solid hit. And there was no one better at this than Earl Campbell, the “Tyler Rose.” He played only eight years, but five of them may have been the most spectacular ever. Perhaps if he had won a Super Bowl, and ESPN had not been in its infancy during his brief era of greatness, he would now be with the immortals –not merely a Hall of Famer, but at the top of football’s Mt. Olympus, breathing the thin air that floats the sacred names of Walter Payton and Jim Brown.

When someone tells me, “Yeah, but he burned out…they worked him too hard, too early,” I respond, “If you were a football player, would you rather be Earl Campbell or Franco Harris?” Here is my answer:

I haven’t lived in Texas for twenty-five years, but I am a Texan. I understand how statements like this annoy people who aren’t Texans, and I must say that having lived “abroad” for so long and hearing how so many Texans–especially the empty boot politicians that run the goldarn place these days–present themselves to the rest of the world, I understand why non-Texans feel this way. Hell, I feel that way whenever I hear Rick Perry brag about all the people the state has put to death. So I’m not bragging about being from Texas. In fact, most of the time, especially lately, I’ve been embarrassed by it.

But my Texas–the one I’m not ashamed of–is the Willie Nelson, Townes Van Zandt, Larry McMurtry, Molly Ivins Texas of high spirit, no horse shit (but plenty of bull), raise hell on the bastards and care for the least of your brothers. In other words, the old liberal/libertarian Texas passed on to me by my native Texan parents. My favorite memories of Texas are Saturday nights listening to live music and hanging out with friends in the Continental Club (and Liberty Lunch, Soap Creek Saloon, Antones, The Beach…).

And, of course, football. It has been said that football is the national religion of Texas. I disagree. Religion is the religion of Texas. But Texas is polytheistic. There is the God of Heaven, and there is Football. To paraphrase Carlos Fuentes, you can be a Texan and not believe in God, but you cannot be a Texan and not believe in Football.

It gets in your blood–music, politics, sports, especially football. That is what this blog is about. It is not about Texas (I live in the Midwest now–and happily so). But it is about high spirit, the human condition, and the pursuit of excellence in music, sports, art, and politics (o.k., in politics it may be more about irony and absurdity than beauty and excellence, but every now and then…). For better or worse, I learned these things growing up in Texas.